


Miracles Take Time

by merelypassingtime



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: After his speech at Sherlock’s grave John comes home to find a post-it note on his fridge that says, ‘Miracles take time.’





	1. July, 2011

“No please, there’s just one more thing mate. One more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock for me. Don’t be dead. Would you do that? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this.”

John looked down at the grave one last time and nodded jerkily before marching off. It felt like he was leaving the last of the life he had build for himself from the ruins of his military career behind him, buried deep in the ground. In a very real sense his life was over again and he wasn't sure he had the strength to start over yet again. 

The cab ride back from the graveyard with Mrs Hudson might have been awkward but John was too lost in his own thoughts to do more than nod politely through her incessant chatter. He suspected that she had taken one of her herbal soothers before coming out with him. He didn't blame her for it, it had been a hard trip and a difficult goodbye for both of them to make.

When they reached home he declined her invitation in for a cup of tea as politely as he could, his capacity for shared grief used up for the day. Instead he trudged up the stairs to the empty flat, already dreading the empty silence he knew he would find.

A single look around the cozy, cluttered sitting room, so full of half finished projects and memories and John knew that he had to move or he would never try to rebuild his life, he would wallow in this dead happiness until he died himself. He wasn't sure yet if that was what he wanted. For now it would be enough to just continue up to his room where the ghost of Sherlock would be less apparent. First though he detoured to the kitchen to grab the bottle of whisky he knew was in the back of one of the cupboards, praying that it had not fallen prey to one of Sherlock’s experiments. 

He almost missed the little blue post-it note stuck to the refrigerator, it just catching at the edge of his awareness as he was about to leave the kitchen. He almost wrote it off as nothing more than a note from Mrs Hudson, likely about some food she had put in there for him but a thread of curiosity wound though the dark haze of his thoughts and pulled he back into the room towards the note.

The kitchen was dimly lit, making the words on the paper hard to read but the handwriting, a sharp angular scrawl, was achingly familiar. He had to give himself a shake before he could process the words themselves. 

_Miracles take time_

There was the sound of a bottle of whisky hitting hard tiles and shattering but John barely heard it. He could only stare at the note as hope fulled him and it felt like his heart began to beat once more.


	2. August, 2011

John sat and stared blankly at the computer screen, completely at a lost as to what to do. It had been almost two weeks since he had found the note on his refrigerator, two nightmarish weeks. 

At first he had been overflowing with elation knowing that somewhere Sherlock was alive. The flat that so recently seemed to be a tomb was again full of light and promise now that Sherlock was not gone forever. For almost a day he had been so filled with relief and joy that he couldn't help but burst into fits of giggles, he knew it had worried Mrs Hudson no end. She had been up twice with tea despite it being a bad day for her hip, fussing and assuring him that everyone grieved in their own way and their own time. Only knowing that she would likely think he had gone completely around the bend had stopped him from hugging the smaller woman and whispering in her ear that Sherlock would be back. 

But as the first rush of happiness faded uncomfortable questions began to grow in his mind. When would Sherlock be back? Where was he now? What was he doing that required him to be dead? Knowing the man as he did John was sure that whatever he was doing it was likely very clever and stupidly dangerous. He would be out there all alone too, without John's gun to back him up or John to remind him that however boring eating was still necessary or even to play Cludeo with him on danger nights. Sure Sherlock had been alive to write him that note but would he stay that way through whatever he was doing? And if he did really die would John ever know or would he just be left to forever wait for a friend who would never come back. Was Sherlock even now in trouble somewhere? Was he dead?

Slowly the uncertainty ate away at any joy he had found in the knowledge of Sherlock’s continued life.

He couldn't sleep, had no interest in food, and took to pacing the floor of the sitting room as agitated as Sherlock had ever been in one of his strops imagining all the horrors his friend could be facing and all the fates he could meet and feeling his own powerlessness.

In a very real way it was worse than when he had thought Sherlock dead. For all his guilt over his failure to stop Sherlock from committing suicide and his despair at the empty life that stretched out all around him at least it had been over. The tragedy had happened and left John with the ability to pick up the pieces or not as he chose. Now though the game was on somewhere and all John could do was sit on his hands here at home unable to help. It was maddening.

That is why he sat now, his laptop at the ready, determined to find his friend where ever he was and go save the bloody git from himself. Unfortunately he had no idea how to get started.

He had thought about asking Mycroft point-blank but in the end he had reasoned that if Mycroft had known all along that Sherlock wasn't dead he would continue to lie to John about it. If he didn't know and could use his power and place to find Sherlock he probably wouldn't share any information with John. Besides John wasn't at all sure he would help his brother, not after the way he had been willing to sell Sherlock out to Moriarty.

The cursor blinking away in his browser bar seemed to be mocking his lack of technical proficiency. Tentatively he typed, “Sherlock Holmes death,” pulling up untold pages of results. Most were news articles, some reputable some from tabloid rags, about the death and the scandal leading up to it. In the weeks after his death John had positively avoided the news, unable to listen to them dragging Sherlock’s name so gleefully through the mud. Now he wondered if somewhere in all that shite there would be a hint to lead him to where his friend had gone but the number of articles was overwhelming.

The sound of his phone receiving a text broke his concentration. Quietly he cursed whatever well-meaning person who was just checking in on him the text would surely be from, as if it was their fault he didn't know where to start. Expecting to see Harry or even Ella's name he was surprised to find the text was from an unknown number. Sliding his finger across the screen to unlock the phone he pulled up the message:

_Stop looking for me, it will only make other people look as well._

A hot flare of guilt churned inside John at the terse words. In his own anxiety he had never stop to consider that people might be watching him, never thought that his need to help Sherlock might actually put him more at risk. He was embarrassed to realize that he had never tried to put himself in Sherlock’s shoes enough to wonder if he had a reason to let John believe that he was dead. If he had wanted John to come along he would had made it happen and if John respected his friend he would have to respect his choices too. 

He took a deep steadying breath, then deleted the text and cleared his browser history.

John was a soldier and soldiers knew how to live from day to day, how to block out the uncertainty of a dangerous future. It was a lesson he would have to remember.


	3. January, 2012

In the several months since coming home to that first note John had received only one further message from the dead git. It had been on the back of a postcard from America featuring a sheep in a leather coat with the motto 'Baah-d to the Bone' printed over it. The single line of writing on the back read, “I bought a grey wool jumper, it reminds me of home when I wear it.”

John had not been able to stop himself from carrying the card around in his jacket pocket, a touchstone he could use to reassure himself that he wasn't mad after all and that Sherlock was still out there somewhere alive. It had been weeks before he could part with it even enough to put it away with the first note, pressed in-between the pages of a copy of Pride and Prejudice he had been surprised to find on their bookshelf. It had been longer still until he stopped checking the mail eagerly each day only to find bills and crushing disappointment.

By the end of January though he had once again managed to tuck away all of this thoughts and hopes about Sherlock, so much so that the significance of the twenty-ninth didn't even occur to him until Greg called him in the evening to check on him. 

It had been another too long day at the surgery and John had been blessedly tired when he got home. It was the goal of all of his days to come home too exhausted to notice that even with the hope of Sherlock's eventual return Baker Street was a hollow shell of the home it had once been and the empty hours of his evenings where impossible to fill. 

When Greg had called John had been puzzled and slightly annoyed by it. Conversations between the two of them were still short and stilted with guilt and grief on both sides and he had not been in the mood to wade though another one. So he had been terse almost to the point of rudeness and had quickly shot down the man's offer to take him out for a pint. 

It was only after he had rang off that he remember today would have been the second anniversary of the day he had met Sherlock and he had felt bad for being so dismissive of Greg's good intentions however counter productive they had been. He also half wished he had taken him up on that pint. Instead he ended up going to bed early though sleep was not easy for him to find even on the best of days.

Hours later, when it was so late it was almost early, he was still laying there awake enough to hear the doorbell ring downstairs. It was not exactly a strange occurrence, even with all the publicity around Sherlock's 'death' desperate clients and members of the homeless network still had a habit of showing up at all hours looking for the detective. He got quickly out of bed, cursing as he pulled on his robe and limped down the stairs all at once, trying to get to the door before whoever it was rang again and woke Mrs Hudson up.

He yanked open the front door, ready to do some muted shouting at the person who had interrupted his lack of sleep but the words died in his mouth as he took in the delivery driver standing on the stoop, his beat up scooter still idling on the street behind him. He held a slightly greasy looking bag out towards John, saying, “Order for Watson, crispy noodles with duck, fried rice, wonton soup and prawn toast.”

“I am sorry, you must have the wrong address. I didn't order any food.”

“Online order, you're Watson right?”

When John nodded the delivery man shoved the bag towards him. John grabbed it reflectively and the man turned and began walking away.

“But...” John started.

The man waved the objection off, saying, “Everything is already paid for, good fortune for you tonight, right?” 

He didn't seem to expect an answer as he climbed back on his scooter and drove away without another word, leaving a stunned John to watch as the logo for Zing Zing's Chinese Takeaway on the back of the man's jacket disappeared into the night.

That was when the penny dropped and he recalled sitting inside Zing Zing's that first night, laughing over his crispy noodles with the mad man he had just met and for whom he had just shot a man.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes as he realized that not only had Sherlock remembered the date, he had remembered everything John had ordered that night and had recreated it for him. Who would have ever guessed that Sherlock would be the type to celebrate anniversaries?

John took the food upstairs and spread it out on the kitchen table. Even though he was not hungry he still ate, savoring the memories more than the food. When he was done eating and had packed away the leftovers he picked up the fortune cookie. He held it for a moment, remembering a tipsy Sherlock trying to deduce his fortune for him that first night and how wrong he had been. He tore the wrapping open and broke the cookie to reveal his fortune tonight. It read: 

_Absence makes the heart grow fonder_


	4. January, 2013

John tried his best not to get his expectations up too much when the twenty-ninth came back around. He took the tube into work like any normal day and saw his patients with all the patience he could muster, all the while repeatedly telling himself that just because Sherlock had commemorated it once didn't mean he would do it again and that for all he knew Sherlock wasn't even in a place where he could send him a message. He could be in some forgotten corner of the world that still didn't have mobile service, or he could be planted deep in the ranks of a criminal organization and unable to break his cover for something as trivial as an anniversary. 'He could be captured and being tortured right now,' his brain supplied unhelpfully. 'Or he could even now be dead, lying abandoned in a field to rot away forever lost and unlamented...'

With the ease of long practice John cut the thought off abruptly but not before it had knocked the wind out of him. Unsteadily he took out his wallet, feeling around in it for the thin piece of paper he kept in it and was instantly reassured by the feel of Sherlock's last note to him.

It had come to him less than a month before, passed to him by a homeless teen who had stopped him on the street asking for a light for her cigarette. John had told her no he didn't smoke and had not been able to resist doing a bit of doctorly scolding about the evils of it. The teen had rolled her eyes but said, “Fine. You are probably right.” Then she had offered him the cigarette she had been holding. “Here, you hang on to it then so I don't smoke it later.”

Startled John had taken the cigarette only noticing the note wrapped around it with red thread after it was in his hand. He pocketed it as casually as he could and nodded at the girl. The trip the rest of the way home that evening had seemed interminable and he had taken the steps up to the flat with more speed and ease then he had managed in months. Untying the piece of paper had felt like unwrapping a present and he had held his breath as the now achingly familiar handwriting was revealed:

_Sometimes I am tempted and sometimes I really need something to take off the edge but always the thought of you keeps me right._

Now reading those same words again calmed John's fears and stilled the tremor in his hand. He reflected that even after being apart from him for years with only a scant handful of messages to connect them Sherlock still managed to keep him right as well. 

It seemed greedy to expect another message so soon but still he hoped and the day dragged on. He expected the evening would be even worse without even the nominal distraction of work. When one of the other doctors invited him out to welcoming party for the surgery’s new nurse he was tempted but he knew that if he went he would just spend the entire time wondering if he was missing the message being delivered. So instead he skived off and hurried home, prepared for a long and fruitless wait and scared to miss a second of it. 

It proved to be a needless fear. As soon as he entered the flat he dropped his bag next to the door and turned into the kitchen to make his customary cup of tea only to be stopped short by the sight that greeted him.

The table had been carefully laid for dinner with a set of fine china that John was pretty sure he had not owned before. A single red rose stood in a beaker at the center of the table between the two place settings next to a lit candle in a jar. Immediately he noticed that although two places were set only the one on the far side of the table where he usually sat was complete. The other one had no silverware lined up next to it and the plate was turned upside down. Resting on top of the plate was a post-it note with a bold black arrow pointing at the refrigerator and a fortune cookie. 

Curious he went to the refrigerator expecting to find a bag of Chinese food to match the cookies. Rather he found a large styrofoam takeaway box on the shelf. He took it out to examine more closely and felt his heart leap at the sight of another post-it stuck to the top of the box. It said: 

_When you said you were unattached I wish I'd had the courage to tell you that I would be happy to fix that._

The words puzzled him until he opened the box and saw it was full of spaghetti bolognese. Then a flood of memories from that first dinner at at Angelo's overwhelmed him. He remembered the candlelight playing on that otherworldly face and how his usual suave charm had been helpless against it. He also recalled the awkward pass he had made with the clarity your mind reserves for the painfully embarrassing moments of your life and he knew exactly what Sherlock meant.

“And I wish I had asked you if you ever cheated on your work.” He said it softly even though there was no one there to hear him. He sighed and removed the post-it before putting the box in the microwave.

Even reheated Angelo's spaghetti was delicious but John couldn't help rushing though it, eager to get to the somewhat incongruous fortune cookies still resting on the overturned plate. Eventually he abandoned the meal in favor of reading his fortune. He was not disappointed, and it was though suddenly teary eyes that he read: 

_Love conquers all_


	5. 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to the amazing no-reason-at-all who beta read this chapter for me. You are a rockstar and you made this chapter immeasurably better!

2013

Time slipped by as John soldiered on. He could almost feel himself growing more dull and grey as he trudged through the days, buoyed only by Sherlock's messages.

He received one on his birthday as a spambomb to the email accounts of everyone at his surgery. Initially, John ignored the barrage of emails advertising, 'New, cheap Viagra!' and 'Enroll now! Hot singles in your area!' but it was a huge topic of discussion all day, especially after one of the lab technicians pointed out that the first letter from each subject line spelled out, 'Never going to give you up.' As the whole office wondered who had played the prank John had learned somewhat against his will about Rickrolling, a fad that had happily passed him by while he was stationed in Afghanistan,. 

Even then he would have missed the connection to himself if what had felt like the millionth email from the office manager about the 'issue' hadn't included a screenshot of the emails. The sender name on the first email jumped out at him: Jefferson Hope. A second look through showed that all the senders were named for the criminals from cases he had helped Sherlock with. Quickly, he clicked over into his trash folder, finding all the messages still there and, in direct violation of the orders he had just been reading from the manager, he opened each one. They were all blank save for the last one, where only two words greeted him: 'Never again.' He hoped with all his being that would be true.

Another and considerably less heartening message showed up on the second anniversary of Sherlock's 'death.' That day John had taken off, thinking it would be suspicious if he didn't. He had made the trip out to what he now knew was just a meaningless headstone and, feeling somewhat foolish, stood there and tried to look sad instead of worried.

To his own surprise words began to fall from him onto the empty grave. “I miss you. God, I miss you. You must know that right? And every day it becomes that much harder to believe-” he faltered for a second, knowing better than to voice somethings out loud even when he seemed alone, before continuing, “-well, to believe that there is any sort of happy ending to be found in this mess.”

He paused again, one hand coming up to rub at his nose as he struggled with the rest of what he needed to say. He crouch down and rested one hand on the black granite just as he had years ago, took a sharp breath, and said in almost a whisper, “I know what you said, I know miracles take time but I am running out of it, Sherlock. I can't do this without you. Knowing that you're alone too, where ever you are... Please. Please, this has to end soon, one way or another. Okay?”

He stayed there, hunkered over the grave for several more minutes, almost as if he expected the headstone to have an answer for him. It didn't.

Instead he found his answer when he arrived back at home tied with red ribbon to a brightly colored box of Swiss chocolates he found mixed in with his mail. At first he was puzzled by the package, knowing it was not something he had ordered. He almost knocked on Mrs Hudson's door to see if they were hers, but the card caught his eye first:

_I wish everyday that I could have brought you with me, but everyday it is only knowing you are safe and sound that gives me the concentration I need to finish this._

Suddenly paranoid that Mrs Hudson would come out and ask him who the box was from he bundled it up with his mail, hurriedly taking the whole stack up to the flat. 

He threw the rest of the mail carelessly onto the desk, taking the box with him as he sat down in his armchair. He read the card again, the words making the constant ache in his chest almost unbearable, before he untied the ribbon and set it and the card aside to open the box. He wasn't surprised to find all his favorite chocolates, he was surprised by the bullet he found wrapped in cellophane at the center of the box. Picking it up he could see the point of it was deformed from impact into something fairly soft and his heart froze in horror at the thought of what or who it had hit. He looked back down at the box, hoping for a further clue and was not disappointed. Scrawled on the wax paper cup that had held the bullet was a second message:

_P.S. I am now doubly sorry for all the times I blessed the shot to your shoulder that brought you to me. Being shot is rather tedious even when it heals completely._

Clutching the bullet tightly, John didn't find the note as comforting as he was sure Sherlock had meant it to be. He stared across the handful of feet separating him from Sherlock's grey leather chair, wanting more than anything to see his friend sitting there, and he wondered how much longer he could bear this purgatory.


	6. January, 2014

John followed the chattering nurse through the warren of corridors and wards, trying to nod in the right places and keep up the pretense of a man at ease. It was a relief when they reached their destination and the nurse departed with a wink and a promise that they would send his patient right back. Thankfully she didn't notice that the smile he managed in response was tepid at best.

He glanced around the unfamiliar treatment room and tried to fight down his storm of conflicting feelings, telling himself that really he had nothing to lose if he was wrong. And if he were right, well, that was what scared him.

Someone, probably the excessively helpful nurse, had already laid out all the equipment he would need on a rolling tray and left the patient's file up on the room's computer. John was grateful, but it also left him at loose ends. Unable to stand still he moved to the room's battered stainless steel sink and began to wash his hands. It was something he had done hundreds of times, and the act was familiar and soothing. It also meant he was not facing the door when it opened and he heard the nurse saying, “This way, Mr. Sigerson. The doctor is waiting.”

He rinsed his hands a final time, holding them up to dry. He didn't turn towards the man who had just entered the room, couldn’t bring himself to. The moment stretched out, as sharp and brittle as broken glass, only to be broken by single word, whispered in a deep voice made deeper by emotion: “John.”

Even three years later John could still hear that same voice saying, “Goodbye, John,” and the words echoed through his mind as the awful image of Sherlock standing on that ledge filled his vision. His hands balled into fists, anger winning its way to the top of his emotional maelstrom and giving him the strength to turn and face the door.

Even though intellectually he had known better he still had expected to see Sherlock standing there looking just as he had the last time John had seen him, tall and dramatic with his great coat billowing around him. John was not prepared for the meek, bespectacled man he found in front of him instead. For a moment he wondered if he had made a mistake after all.

Taken overall the man standing there looked very little like Sherlock. He wore faded blue jeans and a plaid button up that hung off an almost painfully thin frame, and his short hair was straight and ink black above a pale face mostly obscured by thick, black-framed glasses. Even the tan bandage wrapped around one hand managed to look bland. It was impossible to look at the man and not assume that he worked somewhere as an accountant or insurance adjuster, and John knew that if he had seen this man in the street he wouldn't have noticed him.

Now though, with his full attention focused on the man, John gradually began to pick out the details that no outfit or accessory could hide. There were the elegant hands, the prominent cheekbones, the freckles clustered on a long neck, and of course no glasses could hide those distinctive blue-grey eyes.

Seeing those eyes wide with shock made something inside John tremble dangerously, and he looked away quickly. His gaze landed on the manilla folder he had brought with him, and he picked it up and flipped it open. Pretending to study the medical records it contained he said with cold biting sarcasm, “Good afternoon, Mr Sigerson.”

“John, I—”

“No, your name is John, says so right here. Of course it is a very common name. It was lucky for me that ‘Sigersons’ are a bit more rare, especially ones who are prone to being shot and stabbed.”

“Let me—”

“No, Sherlock!” And even in the height of his temper it felt wonderful to call someone by that name again. “You are here to get the stitches out from where you 'cut yourself on a broken dish.'” From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock flinch at his caustic tone. “Then I thought we would do a general physical.”

“But John—”

“No, you are certainly due for a physical. I mean, God only knows where you have been and what other life threatening injuries you have suffered. I know I haven't got a clue.”

“It wasn't really—”

“Really what? A big deal? It wasn't really a bad wound? That bullet hit you centimeters away from your femoral vein, you could have bled out in seconds! Then you never would have come back to me!” He was shouting now and to his shame he could feel hot tears running down his cheeks.

Through his tears he could see Sherlock, looking upset and unsure. Tentatively he took a step toward John, when John didn't object he closed the distance between them and rested one hand awkwardly on his shoulder.

That touch and the solid, incontrovertible proof it provided that Sherlock was really here with him at last, broke passed the last of John's anger. The tears turned into full blown sobs and threw himself at the surprised detective, wrapping his arms around his too thin chest and hiding his face against his shoulder.

After a moment Sherlock's arms came up, returning John's embrace and he cried harder.

“I am so sorry, John.” Sherlock rumbled into his ear. “I had no idea you would take this so hard. You have to know that I'll always come back to you. Always. I-I love you, John.”

John sniffed hard, trying to get himself back under control, then he looked up at Sherlock's face. Blue eyes met multicolored grey ones. “I know, you git.”

Sherlock's huff of surprised laughter was cut off when John went up on his toes and kissed him.

John was aware that as far as technique went it was not a great kiss. He was out of practice, wet with tears, and unwilling to move far enough away from Sherlock's comforting bulk to get a good angle. Still, judged only by feeling, it was the best kiss of his life, especially when Sherlock kissed him back.

For a perfect moment in time, the kiss was everything. The last few years melted away, leaving John with only the joy of having Sherlock back with him. 

Sherlock leaned down and the angle changed, deepening the kiss into something more heated. John tried to hold back a groan, and he felt Sherlock's hands clenching in the fabric of his jumper then Sherlock winced in pain.

“What?” John started. “Oh, your hand. I am so sorry I forgot!”

“It is nothing.” Sherlock lied. 

John could clearly see the pain etched on his face but decided not to call him on it. “Fine, it is nothing, but since we are here and we have all the things we'll need to just take care of those stitches we might as well, right? Don't you want to get your money's worth out of this visit?”

“Fine.” Sherlock said, moving over the the paper covered examining table and flopping down on it.

Hiding his smile John turned back to the sink to wash his hands again. “So, wondering how I found you? Or have you deduced it already?”

There was a moment of heavy silence, and John could feel Sherlock's gaze burning against his back as he considered the problem. When Sherlock exclaimed, “Oh. Oh!” it brought back so many memories of him alight with brilliance as he solved cases that John could no longer contain his smile. 

He was still beaming as he pulled on the surgical gloves and settled onto the rolling chair next to the table. “Okay genius, set your hand here and tell me how I found you.”

As John reached for the snips to cut off the bandage Sherlock launched into his deductions. “Of course it was the bullet that lead you too me, that was my mistake leaving it for you. I would have known from a glance that it was hand smelted and unique but you must have taken it to Lestrade and had him run a full set of ballistic and chemical tests on it.”

“Yeah, I did. Thought I was going to have a hell of a time trying to explain why I needed them but he never asked.”

“He probably assumes you have been dabbling in vigilante justice to fill your time.”

“God, you are right. That explains so much.”

“I am always right. And it must have really worried him when he found that particular type of bullet was used almost exclusively by one Mexican drug cartel.”

“Well, he did come round the flat three times that week with beer to 'watch the match' with me.”

“How dull, especially when a little more digging on his part would have told him the cartel in question no longer exists.”

“Funny that, they did happen to collapse from within shortly before I got the bullet.”

“Can't imagine why.” Sherlock said with a utterly unconvincing air of innocence. “Still, knowing the area the cartel was in would have been enough for you to search for records of a foreign national with a gunshot wound last year.”

“An army buddy of mine is now with Doctors Without Borders, she was able to look for me.”

“'Three Continents' Watson strikes again, no doubt.” 

John smirked and didn't deny it. Instead he got a grip on the first stitch with the forceps and said, “This might sting a bit.” 

Caught up in unraveling the puzzle, Sherlock didn't even notice as the stitch pulled free. “Even in Mexico the list of gunshot victims is shorter than you'd think, and that led you right to one John Sigerson, a Norwegian citizen who showed up at a little regional hospital with a bullet in his leg.”

John thought about bringing up how close that shot had been to fatal again but kept his mouth shut, opting to pull the next stitch out with maybe a bit more force than necessary.

“From there it would have been easy to get into the NHS's database and list yourself as my primary doctor.”

“Wasn't that easy but a nurse at my surgery, Mary, helped me do it. I think you'd like her, she is awfully good at being sneaky.”

Sherlock ignored him, continuing, “Then you would have been notified when I came into the A&E with a hand wound here in Cardiff a couple of days ago. You didn't have time to make it down before I left that day so you arranged to be here for this follow up appointment. And here we are.”

“Fantastic!”John said, as he set down the pair of forceps, the last stitch still locked in it's grip. “You are every bit as incredible as I remember.” 

He was pleased to see that years apart hadn't diminished Sherlock's reaction to praise. If anything he looked more surprised than he had the first time John had called him amazing and, just as he had for all those years, John had to stop himself from kissing the shock off of Sherlock's face. It was with a jolt that he remembered he no longer had to stop himself. He leaned in to press his lips to that beautiful bow of a mouth.

The kiss was cut short when Sherlock pulled away with a choked, “No.”

John didn't try to hide the hurt in his voice as he asked, “What? Why?”

“Oh, John, not 'no' to this or ever to you. It is just that I wasn't ready for this right now. I’m not done taking down Moriarty's network. I have just one last piece to take out before you are safe.”

“I don't want to be safe, I have never wanted to be safe. And you are stark raving mad if you think you are going to leave me behind again to go chase criminals without me.”

“I realized that the moment I saw you,” Sherlock answered with a roll of his eyes. “What I am asking is that before we start this, whatever this is between us, would you be willing to help me hunt down Moriarty's right hand man?”

“Oh God, yes.”

“Then, afterward, maybe you'll let me take you out to a proper anniversary supper and we can pick this back up?”

“No,” John said it firmly. Sherlock's face fell for an instant before John continued, “After all, I owe you at least two dinners. I insist that you let me take you out this time.”

His worried expression changing to a smile, Sherlock said, “I know a great Chinese place.”

“I think it is going to be awhile until I can face down another fortune cookie. I do know a great Italian place though. It is where I take all my hottest dates.”

The blush that crept up Sherlock's face at that was so cute that John was forced to pull his head closer so he could kiss a heated cheek. With Sherlock's warm, living skin against his lips and the promise of excitement together looming in their future, John had never felt more content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for how wonderful and encouraging you all have been throughout this little story. It has meant the world to me.  
> A special thanks to LockedInJohnlock, without her initial reblogging of my germ of a story idea I doubt I would have ever wrote this.  
> And all the love in the world to no-reason-at-all for all her hard work and patience in beta reading this for me. She is a fount of knowledge, and any mistakes left in this piece are entirely my own fault. (Damn commas)


End file.
